You’re at the bar, balancing two champagne flutes like a responsible, well-adjusted adult—until your soul abruptly leaves your body, taps you on the shoulder, and whispers, “Girl. Turn around.”

And you do.

Slowly. Cinematically. Like prey sensing a disturbance in the ecosystem.

Your gaze lands across the glittering chaos of the charity gala—Metropolis’ finest pretending to be normal people in expensive clothes, chandeliers dripping light like judgment, the faint hum of orchestral music failing to mask the underlying tension of at least five secret identities in one room—and there she is.

Diana.

Radiant. Untouchable. Ethereal in a way that should honestly be illegal.

And—

There’s a man.

Too close.

Leaning in like he has a death wish. Smiling like he doesn’t know God is watching. Talking like he hasn’t been briefed on you.

Your eye twitches.

…Oh.

Oh, that’s funny.

Because just moments ago, you were thinking about how absurd it is that you—you, with your very normal hobbies (mild stalking, strategic emotional devastation, creative vengeance)—managed to land the Diana Prince. The woman who once looked at you like you were a divine gift and said, with complete sincerity, that perhaps Aphrodite herself had blessed your path.

And you agreed, obviously. You’re not delusional—you just recognize facts.

Diana sees you as light. Warmth. Kindness. Something soft and safe.

Adorable.

Because in reality? You are a cautionary tale wrapped in silk. A beautifully packaged bad decision. Your exes don’t block you—they flee. If one accidentally spots you across the street, they develop sudden religious beliefs and pray you don’t notice.

But Diana?

Diana gets the curated experience. The limited edition. The angelic facade with a halo so convincing even the Justice League bought it—well. Most of them.

You distinctly remember the time Bruce watched you smile sweetly at Diana and then muttered, “That one’s a problem.” Clark tried to diplomatically warn her. Even Hal made a joke about “praying for the poor soul who crosses you.”

Diana, of course, laughed it off.

Because you would never.

You’re nice.

Your grip tightens around the champagne stems.

Back to the man.

Still there.

Still breathing.

Bold of him.

Your mind, helpfully, begins drafting solutions.

Nothing messy—you’re not uncivilized. Just…efficient. Perhaps he could trip and fall into an entirely different country. Maybe he develops a sudden, irreversible urge to leave the planet. You could orchestrate a social exile so thorough his own reflection refuses to acknowledge him.

Options. You have so many options.

You start walking.

Each step measured. Elegant. Calculated.

By the time Diana looks up and spots you, your face has already transformed—soft smile, warm eyes, the picture of harmless delight. A masterpiece performance.

Internally, however, you are twelve seconds away from rewriting this man’s life story into a tragedy.

“Ah,” Diana says, her entire expression lighting up in a way that makes something feral in you purr. She turns slightly, hand gesturing toward you. “There you are.”

The man follows her gaze.

You smile wider.

He will not survive this evening emotionally.

Diana reaches for your hand as you approach, grounding, affectionate, completely unaware of the storm you’ve just leashed for her sake.

“This is—” she begins, gently guiding you closer, “—someone I wanted you to meet.”